Rise and Kill First

by Ronen Bergman

  Nasrallah vowed revenge, and Hezbollah once again responded with a barrage of rockets into northern Israel. A seventeen-year-old jogging on the beach didn’t hear the alerts and was killed by a direct hit. Nevertheless, Hezbollah, just as Levin and Cohen had predicted, regarded the incident as a local matter and did not try to avenge the slaying of Rida beyond the Middle East.

  Operation Golden Beehive was the model for additional attacks on other midlevel officers. But the Golden Beehive MO wasn’t the only one employed. In others, Egoz or another unit moved in at night and placed a bomb in the target’s car or along his expected route, which then would be remotely detonated by either an aircraft or a lookout on the ground.

  Meanwhile, Levin and Cohen were restructuring the command-and-control networks of targeted killings—who decided on targets and who gave the final rashai (permission to engage) order. This was a critical matter. Until this point, all Red Pages for “negative treatment” had to be reported to VARASH, the committee of heads of intelligence agencies, chaired by the director of the Mossad. Then they had to be approved at the highest civilian level, signed by the prime minister himself, who often brought in other ministers as well before making a decision.

  Because of the high risk of a diplomatic tangle in the event of failure, every Red Page required deliberation and a great deal of time, and it often ended in non-approval.

  Levin and Cohen, however, avoided that process through a clever use of semantics. In Lebanon, a targeted killing was no longer an assassination—it was an “interception.” Those, apparently, did not require such scrutiny, although of course the authorization of the chief of staff was still necessary.

  At the time, this workaround of the system was not seen as troublesome. Rabin, who served as both prime minister and minister of defense, trusted chief of staff Lipkin-Shahak and was satisfied with being informed during the weekly operations-and-sorties meeting in the defense minister’s office.

  Nevertheless, “a precedent was created,” one former Northern Command officer said, “by which an assassination operation was called something else so that it would fall under a different decision-making protocol, in order to enable a lower echelon to approve it.” In other words, killing a man no longer required the prime minister’s approval.

  There was no doubt the new procedures were effective, though. After years of frustration in the Security Zone, the IDF had constructed a complete targeted killing system, rapidly gathering intelligence and turning it into operations. In two and a half years, IDF squads carried out twenty-seven targeted killing operations, mostly against Hezbollah personnel, twenty-one of which were successful.

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  WHILE LEVIN AND COHEN were rewriting the assassination protocols in the Security Zone, Israel’s intelligence agencies were figuring out how to execute two Red Pages Rabin had signed in early 1995.

  The evening after the Beit Lid terror attack, when two suicide bombers killed twenty-one soldiers and one civilian waiting at a bus stop, Israeli intelligence already knew who was responsible and who, therefore, was going to be assassinated: Fathi Shaqaqi, the leader of the Palestinian Islamic Jihad. His organization had grown out of a nucleus of Palestinian students studying medicine in the 1970s in Egypt who were politically active at Zagazig University, a hotbed of Islamist fanaticism. After a brief career as a pediatrician in the Gaza Strip, Shaqaqi set up a small and secretive organization, in some ways a competitor to Sheikh Yassin’s Hamas. Shaqaqi differed ideologically from Hamas in his belief that jihad must take precedence over social reform, while Hamas was equally devoted to both. The group that coalesced around Shaqaqi had only one function: anti-Israel terror.

  Shaqaqi was in and out of Israeli jails for three years, until ultimately he was expelled from Gaza to Lebanon in 1988. The Iranian Revolutionary Guards took him under their wing and arranged permission for him to make Damascus his base, providing him with funds and weaponry. Within a short time, his organization was operating under the patronage of the Iranians, and PIJ soon launched a series of terror attacks. The worst of these was a well-organized gunfire assault on a bus carrying Israeli tourists in Egypt, some thirty miles east of Cairo, in February 1990. Nine Israeli passengers and two Egyptians were killed and nineteen wounded. Following Hamas’s success with suicide terrorism, the Iranians gave Shaqaqi a green light to begin carrying out those kinds of attacks as well. PIJ’s Beit Lid bombings were the climax of this campaign.

  Four days after the suicide bombings, Shaqaqi gave an interview to Time magazine correspondent Lara Marlowe in his Damascus office. Shaqaqi did not admit that he had been directly involved in the attack, but he detailed how it had been planned, smiling and chuckling throughout the interview, evidently quite pleased that twenty-two Israelis were dead.

  By then, Rabin’s signature on Shaqaqi’s death warrant was already three days old. But this order was a highly unusual one. In fact, it was the first Red Page that Rabin had signed since becoming prime minister. At the time, the pact with the PLO and Arafat’s establishment of the Palestinian Authority had led many Israelis to conclude that the war with the Palestinians—the bombings, the terror attacks, the assassinations and abductions all over the world—was over. The Mossad saw the suicide terrorists as an internal problem, within the jurisdiction of the Shin Bet, and there were some who even proposed cutting the Mossad’s counterterror division by half.

  Moreover, Fathi Shaqaqi was a Palestinian leader with many admirers in the occupied territories. The decision to eliminate him, despite the accompanying risk of rebellious responses from the Palestinians, was indicative of Rabin’s painful recognition that the war with the Palestinians was still far from over.

  Indeed, the terror attack at Beit Lid led to a change in the way Prime Minister Rabin conceived of Israel’s security. In its wake, Rabin began defining terror differently: from “bee stings” to “strategic threat.” Until then, the phrase “strategic threat” had been reserved for full-scale enemy military moves that endangered large parts of the Israeli population and its territory or that could lead to the destruction of the state, such as the surprise by the Arab armies in October 1973, or the possibility of Saddam Hussein obtaining nuclear weapons. “The reason for Rabin’s changing the definition—which I totally agreed with,” said Carmi Gillon, deputy Shin Bet chief at the time, “sprang from the fact the terror had succeeded in making a sovereign government change its decisions or delay their implementation because of the effect of the terror attacks on the Israeli street.”

  Despite this change in approach and in perceived threat, executing the Red Page on Shaqaqi was still a careful operation, and it took months of surveillance. Mossad operatives were able to wiretap the phones in Shaqaqi’s home and office, but killing him in Damascus was not ideal. It was physically treacherous to operate in Syria, and it was politically risky as well: Uri Sagie, head of AMAN at the time, told Rabin that such an operation would harm the peace negotiations then under way between Israel and Syria, under American patronage.

  But killing Shaqaqi outside of Syria would not be a simple matter, either. Shaqaqi knew he was in jeopardy, and when he traveled, it was only to other Arab states or Iran—equally difficult places for Israeli assassins to penetrate. For almost six months, the Mossad’s Caesarea tried to pinpoint a time and place where it would be possible to orchestrate an attack. Then, on April 9, the pressure on the Mossad increased: A car bomb driven by a PIJ suicide terrorist exploded next to an Israeli bus in the Gaza Strip, killing seven soldiers and Alisa Michelle Flatow, a twenty-year-old student from West Orange, New Jersey. More than thirty people were injured. A short time afterward, another car bomb injured twelve people. “Find a solution,” Rabin told Director Shabtai Shavit. “We’ve got to nail this man.”

  A month later, the Mossad came up with a proposal, though it, too, aroused immediate opposition. Like Spring of Youth, in 1973, and the hit on Abu Jihad in Tunis, in 1988, it calle
d for the IDF to extend its assistance to the Mossad, which could not execute it on its own.

  Chief of staff Lipkin-Shahak, whose relations with Shavit were already shaky, had no objection, in principle, to killing Shaqaqi, but he believed that the Mossad should be able to do so on its own, and that there was no need to involve IDF personnel in an operation a long way from Israel’s borders. A loud argument between the two men broke out in Rabin’s presence, until he silenced them and decided in Shavit’s favor.

  Surveillance had shown that Shaqaqi was in regular contact with Muammar Qaddafi—who had given the jihadist a Libyan passport under the name Ibrahim Shawish—and that he visited the Libyan dictator frequently, either alone or with other top terrorists. At the time, Libya was under rigorous international sanctions because of its involvement in terrorism, and most airlines did not fly there. So Shaqaqi would fly from Beirut or Damascus to Malta and then to Tunis, where he would rent a luxury car, usually a BMW or a Jaguar, and drive the 480 miles to Tripoli on his own.

  A bomb along the desolate highway seemed ideal, and in June a squad of Flotilla 13 naval commandos landed on a Tunisian beach and hiked toward the roadway, sinking in the soft sand under the weight of four crates, each packed with 450 pounds of explosives. They were placed on special tungsten pallets, strong but flexible, that could be carried by four burly soldiers across the dunes to the Tunis-Tripoli highway. The plan called for the raiders to dig a pit next to the road, on which traffic was minimal, and bury the huge bomb in it. Meanwhile, Caesarea operatives would be watching Shaqaqi as he rented a vehicle in Tunis and attach to it a transponder, or “pinger,” in trade jargon, which transmitted a particularly strong signal. This device would activate the bomb’s detonating device as the car passed by, blowing it and its driver to pieces.

  “Almost no one ever uses this road,” one of the Caesarea planners said at the final briefing, “so there’s a very, very high probability that the target will go to the world hereafter when he is on his own, and it will take a very long time before anyone notices what has happened, and many more hours before some search party or crime scene investigators get to the scene.”

  On June 4, 1995, the signal came in: Shaqaqi had made a reservation for a flight to Malta a week later. The assassination operation began. Two Israeli Navy missile boats set sail from Haifa, loaded with equipment and naval commandos, under Yoav Galant, commander of Flotilla 13. It took two and a half days to sail the 1,200 miles, before anchoring a safe distance from the coast at the point where the border between Tunisia and Libya meets the Mediterranean. Ami Ayalon, now commander of the navy, directed the operation from a distance.

  It had been seven years since Galant led the naval commando detachment that landed a Sayeret Matkal unit on the Tunisian beach on its way to eliminate Abu Jihad. Now the IDF was equipped with much more advanced technology. On a giant screen in the Pit, Ayalon saw accurate, real-time indications of the locations of all the forces involved.

  Proceeding in extra-strong rubber dinghies, the commandos landed some six miles west of the Libyan seaside town of Sabratha.

  “Moving across those dunes was very tough,” said one of the commandos, “with each one of us gripping the end of a pole and trying not to sink into the sand and sweating ourselves to death. I still remember that yellow, perfectly clean sand. I thought that in a different situation, I’d be happy to stretch out on it near the sea and grab a tan. But not that day. It was already beginning to get light, and we had to get the burying done quickly. We kept moving until all of a sudden we heard on our headsets ‘Cease advance now!’ from the force’s forward squad. Very soon we realized why.”

  It turned out that although the Israelis’ intelligence on Shaqaqi’s movements was accurate, they had not anticipated a Morocco-to-Egypt car rally under way right then. Some of the drivers reached the road at the same time as the commandos and decided to take a break. They broke out drinks and chatted loudly in English, German, and French, laughing and cursing the sand that was getting into their engines. Galant consulted with Ayalon. The danger of being discovered by the rally drivers was growing minute by minute. (“One of them may step aside to take a leak or worse, and do it right on our heads,” Galant radioed.) Also, it was not clear how much longer they would stay at that spot or whether more cars would come along the road later. This meant that even if the bomb was placed and set off by Shaqaqi’s car that evening, “innocent non-Arab people” might be harmed. Ayalon ordered the commandos to withdraw. The risk of killing a civilian, or many civilians, was too high, and the operation was aborted.

  Four more frustrating months passed. Finally, in mid-October, the Mossad got a break that enabled them to do the hit themselves, without any complicated combined operations with the IDF.

  The phone, which was still tapped, rang in Shaqaqi’s office in Damascus. On the line was an aide to Qaddafi, inviting him to a conference, in Libya, of several heads of Arab guerrilla organizations. Shaqaqi said he would not be attending. But the Mossad then learned that Said Mussa al-Muragha—Abu Mussa—commander of an extremist Palestinian faction that had mutinied against Arafat and quit the PLO, and was now based in Damascus and operating under Syrian protection, would be there. Abu Mussa was also a rival of Shaqaqi’s.

  “If Abu Mussa goes, our client won’t be able to stay away,” Mishka Ben-David, Caesarea’s intelligence officer, told a meeting called to discuss the subject at Mossad HQ. “Tell the guys to get ready.”

  It wasn’t clear what Shaqaqi would decide in the end. But the Mossad reasoned that if he went, he could be vulnerable during his stopover in Malta, or farther along his overland route to Libya.

  A few months earlier, “Jerry” had been appointed commander of the targeted killing unit. Not particularly liked by his Mossad colleagues, Jerry was a man of few words, who had done his military service in a special naval diving unit. He had already been part of the teams that eliminated Gerald Bull and Ataf Bseiso, and he believed that this new position would elevate him in the ranks of the Mossad toward what he really wanted: to be head of Caesarea. “I want to sit in Mike Harari’s chair,” he told a friend. Killing Shaqaqi, then, was a matter of both national interest and personal ambition.

  On October 22, Jerry and his team traveled to Malta and waited at the airport, examining the incoming passengers. After a few flights had landed, Jerry radioed his partners and the Mossad in Tel Aviv. “There’s someone sitting on the side here,” he said. “I’m going to check him out.” Tension mounted. A minute later, he came back on the air: “I think we’ve got an ID. He’s got a wig on, but there’s a high probability he’s our man.”

  Shaqaqi never left the airport, but instead boarded the next flight to Tunis. The Mossad knew, however, that he would usually spend a day or two at the Diplomat Hotel, in the Maltese resort town of Sliema, either on the way to Libya or on his return trip. So the odds were good that if they waited a few days, Shaqaqi would be vulnerable.

  Shaqaqi landed in Malta again on the morning of October 26 after attending the conference. He was spotted at the airport by a Bayonet lookout, and by 10 A.M. two operatives were posted in the lobby of the Diplomat. Shaqaqi arrived by taxi and checked in for one night. He took his own bags up to his room, not allowing a bellboy to do it for him. One of the Israelis followed him and saw him entering room 616.

  The tranquil and tourist-packed Malta was considered a “base country” in which it was not particularly dangerous to operate, and it was therefore left up to Jerry himself to decide which way the hit would be made. Jerry summoned his team to the street corner outside the hotel and briefed them.

  At 11:30 A.M., Shaqaqi left the hotel, turned left, and strolled down the street, enjoying the pleasant weather. He went into a Marks & Spencer store, and an operative trailed him, watching as he bought a shirt there and then three more at another store. Jerry was standing across the street. When he saw Shaqaqi coming out, he whispered two words i
nto the microphone of the radio in his sleeve: “Honey Bun.” The code for action.

  Shaqaqi had not noticed anything unusual, and he continued his stroll. He didn’t pay any attention to the Yamaha motorcycle that began closing in on him at 1:15, until it drew level with him very slowly. Then, when Shaqaqi was alone on the sidewalk, the passenger on the back of the bike drew a pistol fitted with a silencer. He shot Shaqaqi twice in the side of the head and, after he fell, once more in the back of his neck. The pistol was equipped with a small bag that collected the shell casings, leaving the crime scene investigators of the Malta police force very little to work with.

  The motorcycle sped away, and two rental cars picked up the rest of the team. They gathered at a nearby beach, where a speedboat crewed by three commandos, dressed in civilian clothing and looking like three unremarkable tourists, picked them up and whisked them away to an Israeli Navy missile boat waiting far offshore. The next day, the Malta police found the motorcycle on the beach.

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  IN THE WAKE OF the change in approach to the terror threat after the attack at Beit Lid, Rabin also ordered an intel collection on leaders of Hamas, focusing first and foremost on Yahya Ayyash, “the Engineer,” who’d been trained in exile and imported suicide bombings into Israel in the spring of 1993. During 1994 and ’95, Ayyash was responsible for nine suicide attacks, in which fifty-six people were killed and 387 wounded. Israeli public opinion was brimming over with the sight of spilled blood and charred bodies in buses. Rabin knew he had to do something, and so he signed a Red Page against Ayyash.

  This, too, was very unusual. Ayyash ran suicide terrorists from inside the West Bank and Gaza, territories under the control of the Palestinian Authority. It was the PA’s jurisdiction, and they were supposed to arrest him and his men. Israel and the PA were negotiating the next stages of the Oslo Accords at the time, and operating inside its territory would be considered a breach of the peace agreement and could become a political crisis.